His Sister, His Spouse
by Mindy35
Summary: Elliot/Olivia. Post-ep for "Annihilated". Elliot talks through the events of "Annihilated" and thinks through the events of "Paternity".


Title: His Sister, His Spouse

Author: mindy35

Rating: T, adult themes

Disclaimer: Not mine, you know whose.

Spoilers: draws on "Ripped", "Philadelphia", "Sin", "Annihilated", Paternity" and "Swing".

Pairings: Elliot/Olivia, Elliot/Kathy.

Summary: Post-ep for "Annihilated". Elliot talks through the events of "Annihilated" and thinks through the events of "Paternity".

A/N: This story is dedicated to my beautiful angel Chelsea who sat on my lap for many a lengthy fic-writing session and who left this world too soon for her special spot in doggie heaven.

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_Thou hast ravished my heart, my sister, my spouse;_

_Thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes…_

_(Song of Solomon)_

i.

He's got to get out.

He leaves Interrogation. Moves through the corridors. His feet know where to go. They have to get out.

There are faces everywhere, voices speaking to him. He doesn't recognize any of them, doesn't answer their questions. He can't. His tongue is useless, lank in the dry cavern of his mouth. The only living entity he registers is _her._ Coming to him like a walking, talking benediction.

Olivia.

His Liv.

Her face. Her voice. Those eyes. The concern rolling off her in waves. Making him want to grab hold of her and anchor himself to her. She'll help him. She'll save him. But first— first, he needs air. He might drown her if he doesn't get air. He can't breathe. Can't drag it into his lungs with shallow, ragged attempts. He's sweating and trembling all over. His heart is beating irregularly. His hands are numb and knees about to buckle. He feels like he could drop at any moment into a helpless heap of heavy flesh.

He can't exit the elevator fast enough. As soon as the doors part, he pushes through the waiting crowd and rushes out onto the street like someone bolting for a bathroom when they're about vomit. Crisp early morning air hits him and he feels better, instantly more human. Despite the weariness in his bones, he must keep moving. He has to put some distance between him and his work, him and his night, him and his demon mirror image.

Somehow, he ends up on the subway. He doesn't trust himself to drive. And doesn't actually know where he's going. He just knows that being one amongst a crowd comforts him, even if that crowd is smelly and seedy and probably comprised of more than a few people he's collared in his day. He can't be alone right now. He couldn't stand the silence. He craves noise – voices, chatter, language. Words imply reason. Order. Ultimate meaning.

Standing still on the subway is excruciating though. He can't do that either. The train pulls in at a platform and he jostles his way off, takes the steps two at a time and bursts out into the relatively fresh air. He pauses a moment to drink in the racket of the city. Someone brushes by him, bumping his shoulder hard and he silently thanks them for the jolt. He'll walk the rest of the way. Wherever it is he's going. He trusts his feet to take him there.

His feet come to stop at a pale blue door. They feel content with this destination. After his fist knocks, he hears a voice call out. She sounds hurried. She opens the door with a bag on her shoulder and a set of keys in her hand. He doesn't care. This is where he needs to be. She's a doctor, she has to understand. She has to help. They take an oath. First do no harm or something.

Rebecca Hendrix takes a breath and releases it. "Elliot."

He strides inside, passing through the vestibule and entering her annoyingly neat lounge room. It even smells neat, like the room is never used, untouched by humans and their filth.

She appears on the threshold, the bag on her shoulder defying his intrusive presence. "You can't keep showing up here," she tells him as gently as possible. "This isn't what I do."

"You were happy to do it when Cragen called on you," he points out, voice sounding weird in his own ears.

"That was different," she says with patient sigh. "That was favor based on my knowledge of the job." She pauses, waves a hand and adds, "And of you and your partner."

He doesn't like the sound of that last statement. Elliot narrows his eyes at her and demands, "You telling me to leave?"

He almost wants her to. He doesn't know why he's here, he doesn't want to be. Clearly, his feet were misguided. Therapy isn't his thing and he doesn't want it to be. He senses danger in expressing what he's generally been so successful at keeping supressed. Not always. But generally.

"I'm saying," Rebecca replies, one hand jiggling her keys and betraying her impatience, "that you really should find a therapist and attend weekly, rather than letting these things bottle up until they blow."

"Great." He nods shortly and doesn't budge from her immaculate carpet. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Okay..." She checks her watch before setting down her keys and bag and easing herself into a stiff armchair. "Where've you just come from?"

Elliot sits on the couch. "Work."

"You work through the night?"

"Yep."

"Doing what?"

"Interrogation." His knees are bouncing. He rises and begins pacing.

"Alright." Rebecca scoots back in her chair, impassively observing his restlessness. "Tell me about the perp."

He feels studied, exposed and broken. But he answers her question anyway as his feet work the rug over, compressing the city's grime into its perfect plushness.

"Normal guy – or appeared to be. Family man. Father of three. Catholic. First we get called to his fiancée's place. Bastard snapped her neck the week before the wedding. Next he goes and shoots his wife and each kid. Point blank in the head." He turns at the edge of the rug, casts her a blank look, "Oh, and then he shoots himself to try and pin it on the wife."

"Well." His sometimes-shrink nods, apparently processing both the information and his uncompromising mode of delivery. "That is a lot of death for anyone to witness, even a cop as experienced as you."

He continues pacing, though his voice drops in volume and intensity. "Doc called the guy a…family annihilator. Fancy term for a killer, if you ask me."

Rebecca crosses her legs, head tilting to one side. "So how does your partner deal with all that death, all that killing?"

Elliot stops and faces her. "What's Olivia got to do with anything?"

"Would you prefer not to discuss Olivia?"

"No. I just…I don't see the connection."

"Well, it seems like this case has affected you quite deeply." She pauses, eyebrows lifting solicitously. "Is that fair to say?"

"Yeah," he mutters dryly, "that's fair to say."

"Was your partner with you on the case?"

"She was."

"And has it affected her in the same way?"

"Not this one. Why?"

"It's just curious that you've come here rather than sharing your reaction with her." She pauses again, this time a little longer. "I know from previous experience how close you two are."

Elliot scowls. He takes exception to that telling little pause. Not to mention the implication behind her words. He _would_ prefer not discuss his partner. He refuses to admit it as it seems like an indirect admission of sin but he's deliberately avoided talking about her in the past, not just to shrinks but to anyone, his wife included. His wife most of all. Which is why he so deeply resented Cragen forcing him talk about her to this woman with her sharp face and her pointed questions. He loathed being isolated in that sterile room and probed like a guilty man, all the while knowing that Olivia would likewise be probed about the "appropriateness" of their collaboration. He assumes by the fact that they're still working together though that his partner remained as stubbornly tight-lipped as he did.

Heading for the couch, he plonks down in the middle and faces her like he would a particularly irritating suspect. "Why do people always make it sound like there is something wrong with—" But his objection abruptly loses steam.

"With what?"

He braces his hands on his knees and tries again. "They see a man and a woman as partners and they automatically think…"

"What do they think?"

"You know what they think," he says, shooting her a cut-the-crap look.

Rebecca just tips her head to the opposite side, feigning ignorance. "How do you know what people think?"

"You think I'm imagining that look?" he asks, gesturing at her face. "That tone? The whispers behind our backs?"

"It's called projection." She leans forward, placing an elbow on her crossed knee. "You feel there's something improper about your relationship with your partner so you project that feeling onto others."

"That's a load of crap." He leans back on the couch, spreading both arms along its back. "There's nothing wrong with me and Liv."

"Then why not speak with her about this case? Isn't that what partners do?"

Elliot props an ankle on his knee and studies his fidgeting foot. "Olivia can't understand this. She's never been married."

"So this is about your marriage?"

He pauses. Then lifts his head to look at her. "I'm not married. I'm divorced."

Rebecca gives a slow nod. "I didn't know."

"Yeah, well…" he clears his throat, shifting on her pristine leather couch, "I don't shout it from the rooftops. It's not exactly something I'm proud of."

His answer is bitter. But he's relieved she doesn't offer some token statement of condolence. He always found it weird when people did. Divorce isn't death. He didn't require a verbal sympathy card.

"Then how do you feel about it?" she asks, leaning back in her chair. "How does it feel to say you're a divorced man?"

"Honestly?"

"Why else are we here?"

Elliot studies his foot some more. "Not as bad as it used to."

"How did it used to feel?"

"Like I'd failed." He draws his arms off the back of the couch, linking his hands together in his lap. "Like I was….lost. I didn't belong in my own life."

"But that feeling is fading?"

"Slowly. But yeah."

"And you feel guilty about it fading."

He frowns at her. "I didn't say that."

She smiles slightly. "Your face did."

"Did my face also tell you how fucking sick I am of yakkin' about how I feel?" He jerks upright, trudging round the couch and toward the window, muttering to himself, "Sick of that stupid question…_how do you feel?..._"

"You came to me, Elliot. Part of you must want to talk."

"I _came_ to you because…"

"Because?"

He faces her, leaning back against the window frame with his arms resolutely crossed. She's looking at him expectantly, so fucking poised and patient. And in response, he finds himself mentally reaching for the first thing he can think of – or at least the first thing he can think of that he's happy to say out loud.

"Because I had sex with my wife." He stops to frown and correct himself, "My _ex_-wife—" then continues in a quieter tone, "After seeing those dead kids in their beds…I went home, watched my kids sleeping and…I don't know how it happened, it just did."

"Elliot, you were in shock. You wanted to feel the warmth and safety of family again. There is nothing surprising or reprehensible about that."

"Then why do I feel like I've done something wrong? Something…terrible."

"You tell me."

He draws a breath in through his nose, glances to one side, then begins slowly, "When Kathy first left me, all I wanted was for things to go back to normal. But…after I left her bed last night, I realized I don't want that life anymore. I _don't_ belong in my old life…maybe I haven't for a while. But," he shrugs and meets her steady gaze, "I don't want to."

"So what do you want?"

He gives a half-grimace, half-smile. "Haven't figured that out yet."

"Is that why you came here? To figure it out?"

"No. Maybe…I don't know."

There's a moment of silence. Elliot can feel the difference in his body. He's still dead tired but he feels less frantic. His body parts are all functioning as usual – his tongue, lungs, hands, feet and gut all seem to be back in harmony with each other. And there's a strange looseness happening in his chest.

Rebecca uncrosses and recrosses her legs, hooking the alternate one over the other. Then she presses on with: "Elliot, we've spoken about your father. Can you tell me a little about your mother?"

His guard instantly lifts. "Why?"

"So I can understand where you're coming from."

"Uh." He makes his way to the fireplace and props an arm against the mantelpiece. "So we're getting to the Freudian part now?"

"If you like."

"My mom…" He plays with a wooden figurine of a horse sitting on the mantel as he tries to come up with a brief synopsis of his mother. "My mom…was crazy."

"Crazy how?"

He casts her a sideways glance. "I believe your people call it bipolar."

He can practically hear her brain ticking over, all the pieces falling into place and building a flawless narrative of his life that would no doubt fit right into a psychiatric manual but has little to do with him being pulled out of school to go diving with mermaids. Or him going without food because his mother sent him to school with a jar of screws and a Billie Holiday record instead of a packed lunch. Or with him having to fend for himself when he was ill or sign his own report cards or teach himself how to tie his laces and tell time.

"So," she muses, watching his eyes glaze with recollection, "growing up you had a violent, domineering father and an unstable, emotionally absent mother who couldn't protect you from him."

"In a nutshell."

"Makes sense."

"Of what?"

"Of the role you've cast yourself in. The perfect family man."

"Don't think Kathy would agree with you on the perfect part."

"And also of why you're so attracted to your partner."

His cynicism stalls. "Attracted—?"

Rebecca meets his stalled stare with a straight face. "I don't mean attracted in the standard sense. I mean that she represents something you lacked as a child. She's the antithesis of your mother. She's a strong, rational, competent woman who's capable of protecting you and who you can trust not to let you down."

"Yeah…" He humphs resentfully, shoving his hands into his pockets. "She's so competent she doesn't need anyone."

"You think Olivia doesn't need you?"

Elliot rolls his lips inward and glares at the rug. When he doesn't answer, or doesn't seem to know how to, Rebecca relieves him of the burden of an honest reply by saying:

"I can't speak for her, of course, but people often draw into their life a partner who reflects unresolved wounds from childhood. Olivia's father was unavailable so she's attracted another man who is unavailable. It's what's familiar to her. And it may go a long way towards explaining her instinct towards self-reliance."

"Well." He extracts his hands and heads back to the couch. "All that might be true but…I didn't come here to talk about my partner."

"Let's return to your case then. Tell me more about that."

Elliot sits and spreads his hands. "Like what?"

She shrugs a shoulder. "Whatever comes to mind."

"What can I say?" he mutters, head shaking. "The guy had it all and he threw it away for another woman."

"Tell me about the woman then."

"The vic? Ah…late thirties. Brunette. Beautiful. Stunning, actually. Big, bright smile. Seemed loyal…you know. Brave – wanted to be with him despite the danger he said it'd put her in."

"And did he love her?"

"He said he loved both women. The wife and Cynthia."

"Her name was Cynthia?"

"Why's that significant?"

She plants an elbow on an arm of her chair, stroking her chin with two fingers. "I'm simply starting to realize why you chose not to talk about this case with your partner."

His brows contract. "I don't follow."

"Well, there are obvious parallels, aren't there? A religious man, a family man wreaks havoc on his life and kin when he falls for another woman."

Elliot is silent a moment, jaw clenching. "I still don't follow."

Rebecca studies him briefly. Then takes a breath and asks, "Elliot, do you remember recently when I asked what you'd do if you had to choose between saving the life of a member of the public or that of your partner?"

"Yes," he answers tersely. "And I already told you what I chose in that situation."

"You did. So what if you had to choose between the life of your partner and the life of your wife?"

The question blindsides him. His head begins to wag and his eyes widen with incomprehension. His mouth opens on an answer he can't form and doesn't want to. He lets out a breath, whispering, "I can't answer that question."

"And in truth, you don't have to." She uncrosses her legs and leans forward, elbows on knees and fingers knit. "This is not a life or death situation, Elliot. Choosing one will not annihilate the other. You are not your perp. You will not destroy your family if you choose another life for yourself. In fact, there are plenty of perfectly amicable divorces where spouses remain friendly and children even benefit from their parents' decision to part."

His head continues to shake back and forth. "That's not what I want."

"But what do you want?" She waves a hand at him, reminding him, "You've already admitted you don't want your old life."

"Look—" he gets to his feet and heads back behind the barricade of the couch, "I know what you're trying to get me to say here."

Rebecca frowns up at him. "What do you think I'm trying to get you to say?"

"You know." He paces back and forth, shooting her determined little glares. "And I'm not saying it. We're not going there. It's crap."

Her frown deepens, her tone becoming more urgent. "I am not trying to trick you into some admission, Elliot. I am _only_ interested in the truth. The reason people end up with bullets in their brains isn't because of new love or old love or lack of love. It's because they avoid being honest. With themselves and each other. But you can be honest here. You can say whatever is inside you and it will not leave this room. You can let out whatever it is you've been locking up and pushing down for so many years and no one is going to judge you."

His pace quickens, his head wags more insistently. He's sweating again, his heart pounding and mouth turning tacky. He starts tugging at his clothes and mumbling, "I don't know what you expect me to say…I don't…I really don't know what you expect from me…"

"How about telling me why you feel so guilty? When you are _not _a murderer, you are _not _an adulterer—"

The word hits him like a bolt of lightning. He halts, head bowed – then turns to face her, eyes ablaze. "…_Adulterer_?"

"That's what I said," she answers, gaze unflinching.

"And _that's_ what you've been getting at. Isn't it?" He jabs a finger at her, radiating fury and scorn and indignation but keeping his reaction carefully corralled behind the couch. "_That's_ what you want me to be honest about. _Right?_" His voice rises in pitch and his hands gesture at his chest like claws intent on excavating a deep-seated secret. "You want me to say I want her, you want me to _admit_ that I— I crave her. I look at her and I lust after her. That I—" he breaks off, eyes slipping shut and face and neck beginning to burn with heat, "I want my hands everywhere on her body, I want them in her hair and between her legs and on her ass and—. I want to kiss her ears and her neck and her mouth and her stomach and her thighs and her feet and her spine. I want to cup those incredible breasts and push inside her and make love to her in every way possible. I want to make her sigh and say my name, I want to make her mine and make her happy. I want to go to sleep with her and wake up with her and grow old with her and give her children and give her everything and I don't give a fuck if we're married or if we're partners because I just want the rest of the world to go away and leave us alone. I just want her. I want _her—"_ his body buckles under the weight of the torrenting emotion but he catches himself, hands white-knuckle gripping the back of the couch, "and I don't know…_I don't know_ how to stop wanting her when I've wanted her…all my life. Always and forever and I'm so fucking tired of pretending I don't. I'm so…_so_—"

His voice wavers then breaks altogether. He lifts a hand to his face, wipes the moisture from his eyes then covers them with his quaking palm for several moments. His blood is thumping and his head hurts. His whole body is on fire. Rebecca waits for his hand to lower, for him to straighten his spine and recover his composure before continuing in an especially gentle tone.

"You're a divorced man, Elliot. You are free—"

"I don't—" he interrupts, voice dropping, drained, "feel free."

"And you won't. Not until you absolve yourself of feeling guilty about what you truly want. You can't offer her anything if you feel guilty about loving her. In fact, you can't fully love any of them – not your wife or your children or anyone new – until you accept that you can and do love them all."

"I don't know how to do that," he mutters, eyes lifting to hers.

"You start by being honest." Rebecca pauses. Then asks him, simple and straight, "Elliot, do you love your ex-wife?"

He shrugs his tired shoulders. "I always will."

"And do you love your children?"

His head bobs weakly. "I'd do anything for them."

She pauses once more, giving him an extra moment of preparation. "And do you love Olivia?"

Elliot shakes his head, searching his shattered mind for words that might accurately answer such a simplistic question. "I couldn't love her more," he says eventually, throat hoarse with emotion. "She's…my blood. She's my flesh and my bones. She's like a sister to me— she..."

Rebecca smiles, murmuring, "She's family."

"Liv's more than family. Liv…she's my other half."

"And _that_ is the truth."

"But what do I do with it?" He takes a breath and lets it out, eyes wide and brow beginning to crease. "How do I…"

"Get rid of the guilt?" she finishes for him with a rueful smile. "If I had a quick fix for that, Elliot, you'd be paying through the nose for this little chat." She rises, smooths a hand over the wrinkles in her skirt and faces him across the room. "The best advice I can give you is to love who you love and be honest about it."

His mouth twitches up at one edge. "Simple as that?"

Rebecca gives a small, single nod. "Simple as that."

ii.

Nine months later, he stands in a hospital corridor with his partner after the traumatic delivery of his fifth child. He sees the listless look on her face as he exits his wife's room and loves her for trying to cover it with a smile. He loves the shimmer in her eyes when she asks about the baby. He loves the exhaustion sagging her frame and the blood staining her clothes, her hands, her chest. He's so full of love in that moment – for all three of them. He doesn't think she knows that, on hearing word of the accident, he was as concerned for her as he was for his wife and child. While making his way to the hospital, he became more anxious for Kathy and the baby because it seemed possible to lose one or both of them. But it never seemed possible to lose Olivia. Olivia was staple. Olivia was a survivor. It was what she did, who she was. She was strength and resilience and obstinate constancy. He relied on her to be that, particularly when his own strength failed.

His unwavering belief in her was validated when he rushed into that emergency department and saw her standing there. Bloody but whole. Dishevelled but conscious. On her feet and in command and not a single scratch on her beautiful face. He saw the guilt in her eyes as he passed by, mirroring the guilt in his. He knows without a word that she feels guilty for her part in the accident despite numerous assurances that she was not at fault. He understands why. The two of them were built to serve and protect. Neither likes to feel derelict in their duty. It was him that was derelict though. The blame belongs squarely on his shoulders, not hers. It was him that should have been behind the wheel when that drunk hit and her that could have been killed doing him a simple favor. And what she did for him that day – what she did for his entire family – went well beyond favor or duty or friendship.

It was the ultimate act of love.

Not that he'd expect anything less of Olivia Benson. Despite the fact that the baby she cradled and kept warm in the ambulance, by rights, should've been hers – should've been theirs. A fact that will never be spoken, not now. Not ever, he thinks. Their mutual guilt likewise goes unacknowledged as they linger together in the hospital hallway. She's as dishonest as he is when it comes down to it. And he can't help wondering whether he made her that way or if she chose it of her own accord. He doesn't know and almost doesn't care. Because he loves her dishonesty too, how she lies so effortlessly and masks her sadness with that bright smile. He loves all she doesn't say as much as he adores every word that falls from lips he's only ever kissed with his eyes. He is bursting with love right now and so much of it belongs to her even though he knows she'll never, ever claim it.

But it's why he doubles back— why he can't help himself— he'll never do it again— never— and he doesn't actually decide to do it then— it just happens— because it has to— because he can't stand for it not to. He pulls her close and holds her, he lets his eyes close and just breathes. He feels her chest catch with surprise then fill to full capacity against his. He feels her warmth and her softness and her strength and the life pulsing through her body. He soaks up her familiar scent and the unfamiliar proximity and silently pleads with his guilt not to interfere until he is ready to let go.

He'll never be ready. He knows that. There'll come a day when he will have to let this woman go. He'll lose her to a bullet or an accident or another man or another job. Or just because life suddenly changes in a way neither of them foresees. That day is not today though. Today she is with him, she is pressed against him, warm and whole and breathing. His partner and friend. His sister, his spouse. The woman who has spent a decade at his side and only seconds in his arms. He takes the opportunity while he has it – while he has her – to be honest. In his heart, at least. He lets the truth fill the air around them, he draws it into his lungs and lets it soak into his bloodstream. He lets everything be felt in that embrace and prays she can feel it too. It is only arms and hands around ordinary, aging bodies. To anyone else walking down that corridor, they look like two friends engaged in a hug after a lucky escape. To the two of them, it is more. It is everything. It is relief and absolution, consummation and longing, and love so powerful it makes fiercely trained limbs tremble with its force.

Most of all, it is goodbye.

Because he had his chance. After years of being tethered, he was free. But he didn't know how to be. He should've been honest. But he never got round to it. He should've been brave. But he was too damn terrified of losing what he had – or of getting everything he always wanted. He had a chance at another life. But instead chose what he already knew, what he didn't want but what he could live with. Truthfully, he always thought there'd be more time. He always thought tomorrow would be the day when the perfect moment arose, when he finally worked up sufficient nerve or when the guilt he'd been harboring since the day he realized he was falling for his partner suddenly dissipated. Tomorrow never came though and now it never would. It's only now as he's holding her for the first and possibly last time that the force of his decision nine months before crashes down on him. He didn't even realize he was making one when he disrobed for his ex-wife and walked like a shadow of his former self to her bedside, instead of simply saying: "I can't, Kathy. I love you but this is not what I want."

From that moment onwards, it was over. His life, his hopes. Their life, their hopes. Their promised love and potential children, born with his blue eyes and her bright smile. He didn't actually grasp that until he gazed into the face of his newborn son. Only then did it truly hit him, like a strong sense of déjà vu, that once again he was trapped. Whether or not that child was his no longer mattered. It was born into his family so he was in. Caught – just as he was years before when he first laid eyes on Maureen. There was love – overwhelming love – but there was also regret. For the path not taken, the words not spoken, the feelings and future silently sacrificed. And this time round, for an incredible woman who'd never know what she truly meant to him, who'd never know the life that had been so patiently awaiting them.

As they stroll down the corridor, ignoring what just passed between them in that rare moment of physical intimacy, he feels a life he barely dared imagine slip from a watery hope into a vastly scattered nothing. It's easy for them to revert to what they've always been. And what they've always been is still something. He still has her as his partner. His friend. His guardian angel. His secret sister and beloved spouse. The one who can make him fall for her with a single look – and does, everyday. One day, far in the future, he won't have that. It doesn't seem possible now but one day it will be. One day, he will have to live without her company and comfort, her loyalty and protection, her brilliant smile and loaded silences.

One day, Elliot will have to say goodbye to Olivia Benson forever.

But at least that day is not today.

_END._

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(A/N2: I have quit lurking and got myself a tumblr now. I am mindibindi over there and in the market for some cool cyber friends.)


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